


Swimming In A Fishbowl

by ot5cuddles



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artist Zayn, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Musician Louis, theres no liam sorry liam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 11:14:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ot5cuddles/pseuds/ot5cuddles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>zayn's an artist and louis is a musician. they make a deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swimming In A Fishbowl

**Author's Note:**

> written for a prompt sent to me on tumblr. thanks to the lovely person who sent it :-)

It really wasn’t Harry’s fault, when Zayn looks back on it all. Wasn’t Harry’s fault that Zayn hardly spoke two words to him when they actually had the chance to. Wasn’t Harry’s fault that Zayn stopped answering his calls. Wasn’t Harry’s fault that Zayn left.

  
Zayn looks in the mirror sometimes in the mornings when the light is pale and slanted through the dingy window in streaks of yellowish blue, watches as it hits his face and illuminates all the bags and lines and pores. He grimaces at himself, at his own face, the vision before him making his stomach turn with distaste. It might not have been Harry’s fault that Zayn left, but it is Harry’s fault that he hates himself. He hates himself for leaving, but he had to leave. He hates himself for cutting Harry off, but he also had to do that. He did it for Harry’s own good.

  
“You don’t understand,” he’d yelled to him the night he’d told him, his eyes going prickly with wetness that he didn’t want to admit to himself were tears. “I have to go, Harry, I have to. I have to get out of here.” Harry had only stared at him, watching him intently with his brow furrowed, a sign that he was either thinking very hard or in pain. “I’ll come with you.” Harry had sniffed and looked down to his feet, the fingers of his right hand reaching up to toy with his lip nervously. Zayn could tell Harry was on the edge, teetering dangerously, waiting to be pulled back and held a safe distance from the never ending chasm of his thoughts. Harry was complex and his mind roared endlessly with emotions and ideas and someday they’d be the death of him, Zayn was sure.

  
But Harry couldn’t come with Zayn and both of them knew it.

  
Ruined. He’d completely ruined Harry. He’d gone and packed his things and taken the stack of cash from between his mattress that he’d saved from doing odd jobs around the city. He’d kissed Harry goodbye, softly and chastely on the cheek, he’d gotten his things together and went out the door of their tiny apartment on his way to the train station.

He’d bought his ticket to New York City, a ticket that burned with promise in his hand. Once he got there, he would find a place to stay, somehow. He’d get some dead-end job that would serve as a means for making his living for the time being. He’d buy new art supplies, he’d work and work and work until he had something to show for it. He’d wanted it for years. 

  
He had left months ago, and his thoughts were starting to become reality, if the numerous brightly coloured acrylic paintings that lined the walls of the tiny room Zayn lived in were anything to go by. There was a show coming up, an art showcase at a small coffee house a few blocks down. Zayn had been there several times when he first got to the city and that’s when he saw it, the advertisement for the showcase of the work of budding artists who were by all means unknowns, but who were sure to hold promise.

  
The art cafe was held bi-monthly. For almost half a year Zayn worked, making money, buying his supplies anew and creating. Creating new works for his portfolio, pouring himself into it completely, not stopping until his fingers were rough and raw, his eyes were heavy and his clothes were caked in dry, crusted chips of swirled colours.

  
Zayn slowly weaned himself off of the ghosts of his past, despite the fact that his chest would seize up at the very thought. God only knew if Harry had grown to hate him, if he ever thought of him or how he was doing, if his mind was filled with memories of happiness and fondness or if he remembered Zayn the way he was the day he left, hurried; voice raised and actions rushed. He'd traded that life for his goals for his future as an artist, the same dreams he’d had since he was a child with a charcoal pencil and a sketchbook.

  
And he missed Harry’s face, the softness of it under his fingertips and the way his muscles moved when he smiled. He felt it in his gut, pulsating like a great robotic arm, squeezing at his heart and threatening to spill his intestines over the floor. But if achieving what he’d always wanted meant leaving someone behind in the process, Zayn must grimace through it and try not to hate himself too much.

  
But he still does.

  
***

  
A smudge of smokey grey. A dab of deep crimson. Layers of burnt sienna upon prussian blue upon darkest chestnut were swirled around the canvas, creating a rough impression yet looking so delicate as if they were swiped there as gently as one would caress a newborn’s soft cheek. Amongst the sea of such harsh, dark colours lived two spots of soft green nestled in the middle, in the hue of clear, watery peppermint.

  
The different brushes and strokes combined into an image, but from where Louis stood, with his nose close to the painting, all that was visible were the thick lines of paint dried onto the surface of the canvas. He longed to run his fingers along the tangible texture, feel the roughness under his nails, but of course he pulled his hand away at the last moment, the rule of ‘look, don’t touch’ returning to his mind.

  
Stepping back, Louis let his gaze linger over the piercing green eyes of the face made immortal by acrylic paint. Focussing like this he was able to take in the entire work; the shape of the sharp jaw, the bright red lips, and finally, the deep brown hair that fanned and swooped out around the ears and forehead like a muddy halo.

  
If the emotion captured in the lines around the eyes alone were anything to go by, whoever had painted this face must have studied their subject intricately. This artist was very, very talented. Louis nodded his head at his own thoughts before giving the painting one last, appreciative look and turning his head to find the plaque with the title of the work and the artist’s name.

  
 _In a Fishbowl_ by Zayn Malik, it read.

  
Zayn Malik. He’d heard the name thrown about at the art cafe before. He’s been only a handful of times to discover new stuff, get inspired and perhaps meet some of the artists. He frequents these kinds of places, the places where the artsy people are, the people who he’s always been interested in, people like himself who express their desires and deepest emotions through art.

  
Louis eyed the signature in the bottom corner of the painting, sitting bold and black among the twisted colours that molded to create the haunting face staring back at him from the wall. The eyes, so lifelike, sent a chill up and down his spine and he shivered.

  
This artist was exactly who he was looking for.

  
***

  
“He’s right over there,” came the voice of the owner of the coffee shop as she and Louis stood beside the painting entitled _In a Fishbowl_. The owner was a lanky woman with stringy, graying blonde hair and glasses perched upon her pointy nose. Louis had seen her around before, setting up the pieces on the gallery walls around the small tables and booths of the shop to prepare for the art cafes. She nodded her head in the vicinity behind Louis’ shoulder as he desperately tried to remember her name. “Behind you, in that booth.”

  
Louis turned and let his eyes fall across the room until they landed on a man in a dark leather jacket and a gray beanie pulled on over his hair, covering his ears. He was sitting in a seat by the window cradling a cup of something hot and steaming between his rough hands; the hands of an artist, Louis recognized. His own hands were calloused and worn raw as well but not from the dampness of paint or from holding a brush. His were the cause of guitar strings, rough and metallic, wearing away at his skin until he was hard pressed to identify his fingerprints. Louis might not have been an artist in the sense of canvases and brush strokes and galleries but he was when it came down to him and his guitar.

  
Zayn’s face looked hard and cold, as if it had been carved from marble. His facial expression suggested that he did not want to speak to anyone, especially someone who he didn’t know. Louis went over what he could say in his head as he stood by the counter of the shop that the owner had disappeared behind.  _Please, I’ll give you anything,_  he could say. _I’ll pay you more than you could ever think of asking for._  Of course, in the back of his mind Louis knew that one could not simply put a price on art, but it was worth a try.

  
In a moment of bravery, Louis huffed out a breath of warm air and began making his way over to where Zayn Malik sat. He could feel deep, dark eyes on him as soon as he got too close and the wall up around Zayn could be felt in the air almost as if it actually, physically existed. Louis could read people, he could tell when he was unwelcome but something about the man’s piercing gaze mesmerized Louis to the point that he nearly forgot what he had practised saying. He stopped in front of the table and smiled, running a hand through his hair nervously.

  
“Um, hello.”

  
At this, Zayn’s eyebrows furrowed and he took a sip of the beverage in his mug. Louis coughed nervously. “May I - may I sit down?” Zayn nodded, placing his mug down. As he sat, Louis could feel in the air something thick, like tension, the cause of which he couldn’t place.

  
“Zayn Malik, right? My name’s Louis. I’m a fan of your work, well, a fairly new fan. Saw your painting tonight. S’great.”

  
“It’s not for sale,” Zayn broke in, deciding to ignore both the introductions and Louis’ compliment and get right down to business. Immediately Louis nodded, realizing at once that Zayn was not at all a friendly type. “Oh, I figured,” he began, kneading his fingers incessantly. He tried not to the let the disappointment show in his voice. “I just, wanted to, you know…” Zayn’s dark eyes bore holes in Louis’ skull and he thought he was beginning to sweat. “Just wanted to let you know how amazingly talented you are.”

At this Zayn nodded and grunted, taking another sip. “Thanks.” The warm scent of the contents of the mug wafted into Louis’ nose and he inhaled deeply. “A-and if you ever, you know, would be willing, i dunno if you’re interested, but if you are, maybe we could make a deal and you could help me with something.” Louis watched as Zayn simply nodded and averted his gaze. He seemed off, like Louis was a threat to him in some way and not just someone interested in his work.

  
“Would you help me design an album cover? Like cover art?” The artist met his eye then, watching him through narrowed eyelids, weighing him in mentally. “I’m a musician. Trying to get signed,” Louis explained further. “I’m working on getting an album out there. Would you be interested in helping me out?”

  
When he got no definite answer Louis tried not to feel insulted, but instead decided to change the subject as he bit his bottom lip. “You’re not from here, are you? You a long way from home?”

  
No answer, but an indifferent shrug of the shoulders.

  
“If I may,” Louis continued, the cheeky side of him overriding the cautious side and pushing his boundaries a bit. “I was wondering who the face in your painting was.” He really was curious about it, it had been bothering him ever since the moment he’d first laid eyes on the piece.

Zayn, however, remained stoney in his appearance. “He’s - it’s not really your business.” It was Zayn’s turn to try to not sound insulted, Louis could hear the restraint in his voice. Obviously Louis had struck a nerve that he should’ve left alone.

  
This whole situation was weirding both men out. Louis had not been expecting the artist to be so unfriendly and cold. “Sorry, I’ll - I’ll just…” Standing up, Louis took one last glance first at Zayn (whose face remained downcast) and then at his beautiful painting hanging on the wall across the room before he willed his legs to move. They carried him away from the booth and out the door into the frigid night air, his hands hanging at his sides, his flesh burning in the cold.

  
***

  
It was all he could do not to throw up the morning after that showcase. Zayn’s head pounded out a drumbeat, blood beating in his ears that started the second he’d opened his eyes and not stopping even after he’d downed several advil.

  
He supposes it was stupid not to put his painting on sale, the one that had been showcased the night before. Although several offers had come in Zayn just couldn’t bring himself to part with it. It sat back in his apartment, leaning against the wall in its protective packing, mocking him although he couldn’t see the eyes or the mouth or any of it at all. Sometimes he talks to it, is the thing. When he’s lonely. It looks like Harry and it sort of smells like his and Harry’s old place (damp paint and stale jars of water) so it’s comforting. He tells it everything that’s happened and his plans for what’s next and it can’t hear or see or answer and it isn’t Harry but Zayn still talks to it as if it is.

  
Zayn justifies his actions because he’s read about the great artists of the past and the demons that haunted them. All the greats were crazy. 

  
***

  
It was a Saturday when Zayn saw him next, a couple of weeks later when he was nearly entirely erased from Zayn’s memory. The stage lights were dull and cast soft shadows across the worn-out wooden floors all along the room. There was a lot of muttering and cackling coming from girls who hovered around the bar and Niall must be somewhere over there chatting someone up, Zayn briefly thought. He blamed Niall, the reason why he was here (who he’d just only met for goodness sake). Niall loved to spend his weekends dragging Zayn out to seedy clubs like this to “watch the up-and-comers play, Zayn, it’ll be great!”

  
Zayn had bitten on his cheek to stop himself from telling Niall to fuck off in the nicest possible way because tonight he felt like doing nothing except laying across his couch and maybe finishing up his newest piece that had remained unfinished for weeks now. And yet here he was, staring absentmindedly at the tiny stage as a man sat down there on a stool in front of the mic with an acoustic guitar poised in his lap.

  
“Hi.” The sound was no louder than the squeak of a shoe yet it had the sparse crowd by the stage cheering wildly. “M’name’s Louis and I’m…well, I guess you know why I’m here.” With that, the man began to strum and that’s when Zayn remembered.

  
Seeing him up there, under the lights that were tinted blue and purple, he looked other-worldly. Shadows collected in the dips of his cheeks and under his eyes and in the bow of his lips. Zayn’s hands itched to hold a brush. His eyes twitched, narrowing before widening again as if surveying the proportions of his subject before sketching. He thirsted to capture this moment on the canvas, better than a photograph somehow, more subjective, more raw.

  
Louis’ eyes twinkled as he scanned the crowd and his fingers leapt cheerily over the strings causing metallic noises to mix in with the smoothness of the chords he played. Zayn had lost himself, or so it seemed; for by the time Louis opened his mouth to sing Zayn was swaying along with the melody of the guitar, his eyes glazed over and his hands clenched by his sides.

  
Why hadn’t he noticed this man before, when he was right in front of his nose? Where had his brain been? Or his eyes? This man’s face was practically begging to be painted. Zayn hasn’t felt this way about anyone since he met Harry. And that stings; makes him shiver up and down his spine.  
But somehow, listening to Louis’ clear voice makes the sting hurt a bit less. Just a bit.

  
Louis finishes up his set and it’s over far too quickly for Zayn’s liking. As soon as the cheers had died down and Louis had retreated off of the platform, Zayn found himself sighing, a heavy feeling in his chest that was more comforting than harmful. Then Niall is bouncing over, on his face the usual wide grin and he’s halfway to shitfaced if Zayn’s not mistaken. “That guy was great, I told you! Didn’t I tell you, Zayn? Didn’t I say that you’d like it here?”

  
But Zayn doesn’t hear him, not really at least. His eyes are caught on another pair, a haunting pair from across the room, smiling at him softly with a hint of familiarity, and it’s all he can do to return the gesture as he thinks _yes, i am positive that i can mix that exact colour of blue onto my palette._

  
***

  
It’s not like Zayn’s _obsessed_ or anything. Truly, it’s more like he goes home and stays up until 4am sketching Louis’ face from memory. He falls asleep with the light on, his pencil and sketchbook fallen into his lap.

  
But Zayn bites back his grin when he sees him again at the coffee house a week later, admiring the work upon the walls with quiet, observing eyes and bitten lips, bringing his hand up to rub at his stubble every now and again in thought. Zayn watches as Louis stops in front of a different painting of his, this time a misty forest scene with blotches of red and orange and yellow across the canvas bringing the autumn leaves to life. There’s a figure there in the very middle, shadowy and dark, tall and hunched, standing amongst the trees, staring at the ground.

  
It’s not intentional when Louis sticks his fingers out to feel the outlines of the dried paint, but as soon as it happens and he realizes, a moment too late, the entire canvas is wobbling on the wall and falling down to the floor in front of Louis’ feet.

  
Immediately Zayn darts up from his seat and marches over, not sure if he’s supposed to be angry because the butterflies that have floundered up in his stomach are making it very hard to keep a straight face as he approaches where Louis stands with his mouth shaped in a circle of surprise.

  
He doesn’t look over at Zayn but he knows he’s beside him now. Louis saw him sitting in his usual booth when he’d arrived and the second his fingertip had brushed the painting he knew that it was only a matter of time before the artist was upon him. If his memory served correctly, Zayn hadn’t been quite so friendly the first time they’d met so Louis really wasn’t expecting much from this particular situation.

  
Zayn stands beside him though, not saying a word or yelling or fuming. He’s just standing, staring at Louis whose cheeks and ears are suddenly hot with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” Louis tries, kneeling down and gripping the edges of the painting, curling his fingers around them to heft it back up onto the wall.

  
The artist beside him remains silent until he coughs and straightens up. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to touch things that aren’t yours?” Louis can tell Zayn’s trying to sound authoritative and perhaps a tad teasing but his voice comes out sounding weak and timid. He looks up in amusement and catches Zayn’s eye, seeing a sparkle there before it disappears, not unlike a shooting star, and the eye contact is broken.

  
Once the piece is safely back hanging on the wall and Louis doesn’t say anything in return, the two remain there, awkwardly and without a sound, standing on nervous, swaying legs.

  
“Why did you name it that? _In a Fishbowl_? The other one, I mean.” Louis’ voice breaks the silence strongly, the questions coming out choppy as if on impulse. Zayn frowns, suddenly unaware as to how he came to be speaking to this man once again.

  
“O-oh.” The thing is, he’s not exactly sure how to answer that question. He’s been too caught up in his own world, too overtaken by his emotions that he’d almost forgotten that other people don’t live inside his head with him. “Um,” Zayn utters, wracking his brain to find an answer that make sense outside his mouth. “That’s - that’s ‘cause, s’what my memories feel like, I mean how they look, when I look back on them.” The way Louis is looking at him makes him tingle and God, he knows that he just doesn’t make any sense. “They look…distorted, like i’m in a fishbowl and m’lookin’ out at them from inside.” A pregnant pause resonates in the moment it takes for Zayn’s words to sink into Louis. “S’weird,” he adds at the last second to try and mask some of his insanity.

  
“No, I get it,” Louis assures, his mouth set in a loosely curved line, “But who’s the guy? The one you painted? S’he from your memories, too?”

  
Zayn stiffens before shifting around uncomfortably and Louis thinks that he may have just crossed that line again, that uncrossable line into Zayn’s past that is better left alone.  
But Zayn answers anyways, his eyes downcast. “He w-was my-” he takes a steadying breath. “A good friend of mine. I had to leave him.”

  
“You loved him, didn’t you?” Just looking at the painting elicited strange, haunting emotions inside of Louis. He could hardly fathom the kinds of things the artist felt towards the person whom the face belonged to.

  
At that Zayn looks up, eyes sparkling wide like a deer caught in the headlights of a truck. The question came so quickly, Louis didn’t even miss a beat, and that fact in itself is almost as unsettling as the question alone. “I - yeah, I did.” _Am I really that see-through?_ Zayn’s brain shouts.

  
“You must’ve,” Louis continues, cocking his head. “I can tell by the way you painted him. So intricate. Art like that can only come from love.”

  
“I want to paint you.”

  
Zayn couldn’t stop himself, is the thing. Couldn’t find the lock and key for his lips. His filter’s gone, out the door now, along with the sanity he lost quite some time ago.  
Now it’s Louis’ turn to be the scared animal in the headlights, his eyes gutting Zayn immediately. “What?”

  
Zayn focuses on different bits of him separately, drinking him in; his scruffy chin and delicate nose and the curve of his neck and _God_ , Zayn really wants to stare at him all day and work his hands raw until Louis’ likeness is captured perfectly. “I - I’d like to paint you. If you’d let me.”

  
If the air had been thick before, Zayn’s all but swimming in it now as he gauges Louis’ reaction, watches as different emotions swirl around on his face. Confusion, recognition, realization then…smugness?

  
Louis softens a bit though, looking up at Zayn through his eyelashes. “Changed your mind, then?”

  
“‘Bout what?”

  
“‘Bout you and I, helping each other.”

  
“That depends.”

  
“Depends on what?”

  
“Let me paint you and I’ll do what you asked for. Free.”

  
Although he’s beyond excited, Louis seems to ignore this point in favour of skipping back to the previous suggested venture. “You actually want to paint me?”  
“Yeah. You’re beautiful.”

  
Louis’ cheeks become very pink very quickly, heat rushing in at him from all sides. “Yeah?”

  
Zayn nods his head and tries not to let the curve of his lips or the slight blink of his eyes give him away.

  
***

  
“I’ll start off with sketching you. Just rough stuff, to get the feel for it,” Zayn explains, leading Louis into his living room. “You can sit right there,” he points towards the sofa in the middle of the room. “You can play while I’m working, too, if you want.” Louis nods as he brings his guitar case down from where it’s strapped across his shoulders. He takes it out carefully before resting the case on the floor by the wall.

  
Taking his instrument in hand, he heads towards where the artist had suggested. Sitting down, he places his guitar in his lap and strums a single chord just to loosen his fingers up a bit. “What should I play?”

  
Zayn doesn’t look up from where his head is buried in the corner where he keeps his paints and brushes and everything he needs for his craft. “Play…play that song, the first one you did when you performed last Saturday.” He comes back up with a large sketchbook and a few pencils just as the first notes of that song begin to emanate from the hollow of Louis’ guitar.

  
“You write your own stuff, then?” Zayn doesn’t mean to interrupt Louis’ playing, but he is surprised when the musician answers without missing a single chord.

  
“Yeah, I’ve written quite a few,” he says, brow furrowed as he concentrates on the rhythm of his strumming. The song continues before finally, he begins to sing.  
Sitting on a chair across from the sofa, Zayn looks up, studying Louis, before placing his pencil to the paper and starting to outline his shape. And that’s when the magic begins. Zayn and Louis are both in their own worlds, Louis strumming and singing; Zayn scribbling and shading, and it’s like reality is gone and all that exists is this little living room.

  
So that’s why, by the time they finish and realize that it’s nearly midnight, it feels as if no time has passed at all.

  
***

  
They talk about anything that comes to their minds. Zayn soon learns that Louis is a bit impulsive and oftentimes says things without thinking first, which has caused a few awkward apologies, but he means well, so. It’s not a big deal, really. Louis’ just curious, curious about Zayn and his work and why he came all the way from England just to showcase his paintings in a small coffee house in New York.

  
However, while they’re together they find that they don’t need to constantly be talking, which is nice for them both. Comfortably, Louis and Zayn continue to meet at Zayn’s place a few times a week, each time Louis brings his guitar and plays different songs, his new friend drinking them in with a quiet kind of appreciation. The entire thing is a sensory experience for them both; Louis’ eyes taking in numerous pieces of artwork and Zayn’s ears relishing in the music of a worn-out old guitar. Every session is ended with the promise of another one, more rough sketches and explorations of Louis’ features and proportions, up until the day, a few weeks later, when Zayn lets Louis into his apartment and lets him know that it’s the day he’s finally going to begin to paint.

  
“This is big,” Louis calls out as he takes his usual spot on the sofa. His limbs feel awkward today because this is the real deal. He isn’t sure how he should place them, how he should sit or what he should be doing to pose for the painting.

  
Zayn, who brings in a pot of coffee and a case of store-bought muffins from the kitchen, seems to sense Louis’ unsurety as he places the food down on the coffee table. “It’s alright. I’ll let you know how I want to do you,” and it’s not supposed to come out like that, it’s really not, and Zayn’s blushing and fumbling, trying to reword his sentence, and Louis just laughs breathlessly, but he wouldn’t let anyone know how hard his heart is beating.

  
Retreating to the corner to get his supplies, Zayn coughs a few times to dislodge the nervous limp in his throat. Louis continues to shift and shuffle where he’s sitting and for the first time in ages they can both say that the air of the room is sort of uncomfortable.

  
“Okay, so, on the sofa, or…”

  
Zayn looks up from setting up his easel. “Uh, yeah, the sofa’s okay.”

  
Louis stands again then sits down, shuffling his bum around to get comfortable. “You can sit, um, on the left. Or maybe,” Zayn walks over swiftly and, without warning, places his hands on both of Louis’ hips to shift him so that he’s laying sideways on the sofa, legs draped over the armrest and his back held up by a few cushions. “Yeah, that’s good.” If he were paying attention to Louis’ face, Zayn would catch the blush that’s made its home on his cheeks.

  
“I - I want you to hold your guitar,” Zayn suggests, voice wavering. “If - I mean, if that’s okay with you.”

  
Louis nods, a bit breathless. “Yeah, that’s cool, just, would you mind -” Louis holds his arms out, grabbing at the air.

  
Zayn lifts the instrument from its case on the ground and hands it to Louis. “Play for me?”

  
Louis smiles showing his teeth and he feels kind of jittery even though he knows he’s got to be a good subject and stay still for Zayn. But still, it would feel lacking if he didn’t play.

  
“Of course I will.”

  
And it continues the way it’s always been, with Louis strumming his music out into the air and singing bits of songs while Zayn drifts off into his own world of colour and shading and texture. He gets lost in Louis for the millionth time since they’ve met; in the soft brown wisp of his hair, in the creases of his ears and the folds of his lips as they move to let out lyrics no louder than a hum. He likes the way it’s so easy for him to get lost in another person, to completely appreciate them as they are.

  
But it’s scary, really. He’s scared because it shouldn’t be this easy. It’s never been this easy, not even with Harry, if he’s being honest. But Louis isn’t Harry. 

  
It’s new to him and yet it isn’t, all at the same time.

  
***

  
“Um, Zayn?”

  
“Hmm?” His head remains down, staring intently at the canvas in front of him as he dabs a bit of paint to shade in a shadow.

  
“I’m kinda - my butt is numb.”

  
Zayn finally looks up, an amused sort of grin on his lips. “Break time?” Louis nods eagerly and moves off of the sofa, placing his guitar down in his place before stretching his arms out above his head.

  
It’s been a couple of hours of Louis posing and Zayn painting, and they haven’t actually checked the time but the sun has set completely and both of their stomachs are growling angrily like vicious monsters. Zayn places his brush in the jar of murky brown-ish water beside him on the coffee table and folds his fingers together, taking in the work he’s done so far.

  
Grabbing a muffin from the box, Louis bites off a bit as he moves over to Zayn and his easel. “Can I see how it looks so far?”

  
But Zayn seems to wake up then, and he rushes towards Louis, holding him by the shoulders before he can get around to the other side of the easel to see the front of the canvas. “It’s a surprise. I have this thing,” he explains, slowly easing off the pressure of his fingers in Louis’ shirt. “I don’t let anyone see my stuff before it’s done. It’s bad luck.”  
At that Louis nods a bit dejectedly and backs away from the easel altogether.

“S’okay, I get it,” he offers as he sits back down beside his guitar. “I’m that way with my music and stuff. Don’t play anything for anyone until I’m certain I’ve finished writing all the music and lyrics and it’s all polished and everything.”

  
Zayn grins at his friend, his eyes taking in the muffin that Louis is shoving into his face as if he’s never seen food before. “Bit hungry there, then?”

  
“Oh, could you tell?” Louis teases back.

  
A warmth settles in the pit of Zayn’s stomach and he thinks it’s called fondness but really, it’s too early to tell. “Let me take you out to dinner then, before you gnaw your own arm off.”

  
And the answering shy grin that floats across the room from Louis to Zayn could only mean one thing: _I thought you’d never ask._

  
***

  
The thing is, Zayn isn’t sure when this happened, when this became less about capturing Louis’ likeness on the canvas and more about hearing his voice ring out across the apartment, letting it drift over everything and calm him from the outside in. When he walks Louis home later that night after dinner, he says goodbye as they stand on the doorstep of Louis’ building. He leans in and presses the softest of kisses to the corner of Louis’ mouth and watches breathlessly as the man in front of him flushes and smiles before whispering a good night and disappearing behind the heavy door.

  
And if Zayn has butterflies (which he’s pretty sure he does, but it’s been so  <i>long</i>), he won’t let it show as he bites back his huge grin and turns away to walk on home.  
The next time they meet to work on the painting, things between them are visibly different, completely new and tangible. Zayn greets Louis with a hug and another small peck, this time to the cheek, and it makes his heart beat all funny when he notices that Louis is just a tad flushed.

  
They eat before they get down to work, deciding that everything would be easier with a full stomach from the get-go. They sit with their limbs sprawled across Zayn’s sofa, tangled up indistinguishably as they eat their sandwiches. And it shouldn’t feel so right and comforting to hear nothing but Louis’ loud chewing echoing around the room. The sound of it shouldn’t make Zayn feel as if he’s found exactly where he belongs in the world, but it does.

  
For the first time since moving across the ocean, Zayn feels perfectly at home.

  
***

  
“I want you to be the first one to see it, Lou.” Zayn’s hand is clasped around Louis’ head, covering his eyes. He stumbles a bit as he’s steered around by Zayn’s other hand, nestled under his shirt on the small of his back, the warmth of it radiating onto his skin and making it prickle.

  
Once they stop moving, Louis wriggles around on his feet with anticipation. “Can I look now, Zee? Please?” At once the hand around his eyes is removed and Louis blinks his vision into focus. The canvas comes to life before him and he gasps when he takes the whole thing it at once, so quickly.

  
It’s him but it isn’t. It looks just like him, the figure on that canvas. Zayn’s talent had created a perfect, wispy replica of Louis, sitting atop the tattered sofa in the late afternoon light, the curve of his body showcased without flaw, every single detail shadowed meticulously in all the right places. His guitar was even captured perfectly, sitting in his lap, and his fingers painted on so delicately and poised on the strings…it was as if Louis could hear music coming from the painting itself. And, faintly, in middle of the dull colours used in the shade of Louis’ clothing and the curtains in the corner and the hardwood floor were two spots of purest blue, Louis’ eyes, staring out at nothing and yet seeing everything. It truly looked like a photograph someone had taken, only rougher around the edges, blurrier and out of focus, but perfect and true-to-life all the same. Louis feels his heart pound proudly when he sees Zayn’s scrawled signature in the bottom corner and he turns to him, smiling.

  
“You’re brilliant, did you know that?” In response Zayn does the thing with his mouth that he does when he’s trying desperately not to smile. Louis’ not exactly sure why he does it but it’s endearing either way. For a long moment the two do nothing but stare at each other with matching expressions on their faces before Louis’ brow furrows as something catches his eye.

  
He lifts a finger up to rub at a bit of paint that’s dried onto Zayn’s cheek, feeling both the roughness of that and of his stubble all at once. He takes one of Zayn’s hands in his own and squeezes it hard before leaning in just far enough to kiss the patch of paint on Zayn’s skin, lingering his lips there for a moment longer than he has to.

  
***

  
By the time the next showcase rolls around, the air’s gotten colder around them and it rains nearly constantly. Zayn has to be careful when he brings his painting to the cafe, although it’s in it’s protective casing he still worries about it being ruined. He worries all the way until it’s safely mounted on the wall by the pointy-nosed owner of the shop, who gives both Zayn and Louis a polite smile as they sit in a booth sipping on mugs of tea as people mull about the place, admiring the works along the walls quietly.

  
“I think they like it,” Louis murmurs in Zayn’s ear as he eyes a group of people who are standing around his painting like flies around a fruit bowl. It makes Zayn’s stomach turn to see how others react to his work and watching the emotions flit across their faces is one of his favourite things to do.

  
Louis sighs and places his mug down before he pushes his sleeve up to glance at his watch. “It’s getting kinda late,” he says quickly and his cheeks are heating up but he’s got to say what he’s been thinking of the whole time they’ve been at the cafe.

  
“So, about our deal…remember? The one we made when we first decided all of this?”

  
Zayn nods and takes another sip of his tea as he wonders where exactly Louis is going with this.

  
The man across from him shifts uncomfortably in his seat and looks down as if he’s suddenly embarrassed or ashamed. “I just wanted to let you know that - that I won’t be asking for anything from you, like I had initially done.” Zayn’s not exactly sure what he means until he digs around to remember the second time they met, when he’d promised that if Louis let Zayn paint him, he’d help him design an album cover. He doesn’t understand why Louis would revoke that now, why he’d decide that this was it. Zayn wanted to give something to Louis in return for being his muse, for helping him so much and not just with his art.

  
Louis breaks in again when Zayn doesn’t really answer. “I should probably go home.” With that he stands, and Zayn makes to stand up as well.

  
“I’ll walk you, Lou.”

  
“N-no, that’s alright,” he grits out finally, inching a bit farther from the table before coming closer again to reach his hand out. “So…now that’s done.” He nods his head towards the painting of himself on the wall. “I suppose that’s all, then.”

  
And he takes Zayn’s hand in his own and shakes it once, firmly, before averting his eyes and turning away. He walks swiftly out of the cafe and the bell above the door rings out sharply in Zayn’s ears and he’s reminded so much of their first meeting that it makes his chest ache. He watches out the window in disbelief as Louis gets farther and farther away down the sidewalk until he’s completely out of view and Louis’ words echo again and again in his mind:

  
 _“That’s all, then.”_

  
***

  
The weeks go by and it’s as if the time Zayn and Louis spent together was some distant dream, nothing but a fantasy thought up in the back of Zayn’s subconscious. He drifts back and forth between reality and the darkness of his mind where his happy, sweet memories of Harry come out to play, mingling grotesquely with his memories of Louis and his bubbly laugh and his guitar and his rough hands and the dips and curves of his face. He’s in the fishbowl again, trapped with the distorted memories of when he was happy that taunt him and pick at his fresh wounds, open old ones back up.

  
He thought he could be better, normal, maybe, with Louis’ help, but it seems that the crazy’s never far behind once the one thing keeping Zayn happy goes away. It’s his fault, it’s got to be, and it’s always his own fault, no one’s but his own and he ought to slap himself for always being so stupid.

  
They haven’t spoken since the showcase and Zayn can’t believe that he actually thought something would come of everything that happened. The entire thing was purely business, a deal they made that they’d be able to walk away from easily, at least to Louis is was. And Zayn’s scared, is the thing; he’s terrified that the emotions he felt towards Louis were nothing but one-sided, that Louis could never feel the same way no matter how well Zayn’s memorized his features and his voice.

  
And if he dreams about Louis several nights in a row, he won’t admit it to himself in the morning.

  
***

  
It’s seven-thirty and Zayn’s heating up his kettle on the stove, standing over it and staring blankly down, just like he’s been doing for the past God know’s how long. It’s been positively pouring rain all day so he’d opted to stay indoors in the dryness and the warmth, but really, even if it had been a beautiful sunny day Zayn knows he would’ve stay in anyways.

  
He’s just sitting down when a frantic sort of knocking sounds from the front door of his apartment and he gets up to answer it with his face scrunched up in confusion. Turning the handle, his stomach knots up when the face behind the door comes into view. Because there’s Louis, standing outside Zayn’s door and soaking wet from head to toe. His hair is matted to his forehead and dripping down into his eyes and there’s an umbrella hanging from his hand that looks mangled and twisted as if ruined in the strong winds.

  
“Hi,” is all he says, and it makes Zayn want to punch him. After weeks of leaving Zayn to fester, all the bastard has to say to him is _Hi?_

  
“What are you - I thought we…” Zayn can’t come up with words right now so instead he steps aside to allow Louis in. He shuts the door and then there’s a very wet, apologetic-looking man standing in his home and dripping all over the carpet. Although he’s bit mad and confused, Zayn thinks fuck it and he moves his hands up to remove Louis’ soaked hoodie from his body. He drops it to the floor as Louis’ freezing hands clasp his own and he looks into his eyes, pleading, asking for another chance.

  
“Listen,” he croaks out, his voice all scratchy from the cold. “I’m so sorry that I said all the shit I said, I don’t know what the fuck I was doing, for some dumb reason I thought you didn’t want me around anymore and I could just walk away but I couldn’t sleep. I missed you so much that I couldn't sleep.”

  
Suddenly, Zayn couldn’t care less that Louis left as long as he’s back now. And it’s all so cheesy, really, what with Louis showing up at his door in the rain, but again, Zayn couldn’t care less. He thinks that no matter what, from now on if Louis leaves it won’t matter as long as he always comes back in the end.  
“And I - I gotta tell you something.” Suddenly Louis looks very nervous and jittery, even more so than usual and he takes in a breath to straighten himself out. “I’ve sent a few demos in to this one label and…and I’ve been signed.”

  
At that Zayn beams impossibly wide, congratulating Louis with a kiss to the cheek.

  
“And - and if my album gets popular,” he continues, his lips so close to Zayn’s, “Think of all the people who’ll see your work.” Zayn’s lips are moving all over his face and suddenly he pulls back to look tenderly and fondly upon the person he’s come to care about so much. “What do you mean, Lou?”  
“The cover,” he reminds. “It’s - I know I told you otherwise, but like I said, I have no clue what the hell I was doing,” he clarifies. “So I want it to be your painting of me. The deal is still withstanding, as of this moment. You owe it to me,” he teases with a grin.

  
Zayn nods as he positively beams. “Yes, of course. That’s amazing. I’m so, so proud of you, Lou.”

  
They hug tightly and perhaps Zayn still sees flashes of curly brown hair and stark green eyes staring back at him when he closes his eyes, and yes, that still aches inside of him, but once he opens his eyes all he sees is Louis’ blue surrounded by happy, crinkly laugh lines and it’s like a waterfall is overfilling his heart.

  
“Thank you for letting me paint you,” whispers Zayn as Louis pulls away. And he shouldn’t let this moment go to waste, really. It would be a shame. So he brings both arms up to wrap them around Louis’ waist in another hug. Neither of them keeps count but it feels like they’re standing there, caught in limbo for what feels like forever.

  
They pull back long enough for a split second decision to be made on both of their parts and in the next moment their faces are touching, lips moving together, and Zayn’s heart is beating right out of his chest because he hasn’t kissed anyone in a long, long time and the texture of Louis’ lips against his is just so different from the lips that he’d grown accustomed to back home.

  
Louis smiles into the kiss and even giggles a bit, his crinkles exaggerated in the dim light. “S’getting dark, and it’s still raining,” Zayn reminds as he runs a hand through Louis' damp hair. His lips brush against Louis’ as he speaks and they’re still kissing since neither of them has actually pulled away yet. “Do you - do you want to stay here tonight?” Louis nods slowly and lets a breathless “yes” escape from his mouth and into Zayn’s, and really, the question had been asked and answered before either of them had even uttered a single word.


End file.
